


Delivery for a Dancer

by JanLevine



Category: Melendy Quartet - Elizabeth Enright
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:36:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanLevine/pseuds/JanLevine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Randy Melendy has always danced, and plans to be a dancer when she grows up. Or maybe an artist. Or both. But when she discovers a real-live ballet dancer is living in the area, she's willing to do just about anything for a chance to meet her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delivery for a Dancer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snacky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snacky/gifts).



“If only Father were home!” said Randy mournfully.

“That’s five,” said Rush.

Oliver carefully added a block to the castle he was constructing. It was quite a fine castle, with battlements and arrow slits and everything. “Five what, Rush?”

“Five times that Randy has moaned, wished, or otherwise grumbled about the fact that Father isn’t here,” answered Rush. He turned a page in the book of piano music that he had been considering, shrugged, and set it down. He picked up another book and started thumbing through that one.

“Well, I miss him, too. And so do you,” Oliver pointed out sagely.

“Yes, yes, we all miss him,” Rush said dismissively. “But that’s not why Randy is carrying on so.”

“Why is she carrying on, then?” asked Mark. “I guess I haven’t been paying enough attention.”

It was a rainy summer afternoon, and the children were lounging in the Office. The weather had mostly been seesawing between too hot and just hot enough, but today it was chilly, and the rain had been alternating between falling down in sheets and dripping just enough to make it not worth going outside. So it was a good day to stay inside and play games. Or piano. Or sit around and mope. Rush was sitting at the piano and going through his music—for inspiration, he said, Mona was lounging on the beat-up old couch and reading a script, Mark was sitting at a table and making notes in his notebook, Oliver was kneeling on the floor, working on his castle, and Randy was sitting curled-up on the floor, leaning against the couch.

Mark stood up and stuck his head out the open window, then looked around and sniffed. “I think it’s going to rain on and off all day, and maybe all night. But tomorrow should be nice and sunny.”

“Oh, good,” said Oliver. “I can go fishing.”

Based on experience, they trusted Mark implicitly for anything having to do with weather or nature.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged,” said Mona sententiously, “that a ballerina in possession of a vacation house near the Melendys must be in search of a chance to be pestered by one of them.”

Randy, who had been ignoring her less-than-helpful family members with as much dignity as she could muster, was sufficiently overcome with curiosity to respond to this comment. “That’s not Shakespeare, is it? Even mangled Shakespeare?”

“No, it’s from Jane Austen, _Pride and Prejudice_. It’s one of my summer reading books.”

“Oh, _school_ reading.”

“Not bad, though, as such things go. It would make a good drama. I’d love to play Elizabeth Bennett. She’s smarter than everyone else, except maybe for Mr. Darcy.”

Oliver was seldom one be distracted by side issues. “So, Randy, why do you want Father so much?”

Randy thumped the cushion she’d been leaning against, and stared dreamily into space. After a moment, she collected herself, and answered Oliver. “Madame Malinova is staying in the area.”

“If,” pointed out Rush, “by ‘area’ you mean within a few miles of here.”

“So what? And why is she ‘Madame’ and not ‘Mrs.’?”

“Madame Malinova was one of the ballerinas in Manoff’s ballet troupe, and is just amazing. Anyway, she’s Russian, and I guess that’s what they call people in Russia. That’s what Miss Bishop said. She’s the one who told me about Madame Malinova, because she’s living in the house next-door to her.”

“She who? Who’s living next door to Miss Bishop?”

“Madame Malinova,” repeated Randy patiently. “She was part of the troupe in Russia, or Czechoslovakia or some such, and she came to America for some reason, maybe to dance, I don’t know. And then the war broke out, and she couldn’t get back to Europe, so she’s been dancing in New York with an American troupe. I think I saw her once when Father took me to the ballet, but I don’t know for sure. If I could find the program, I could check. It has to be around here _somewhere_.” She waved her arm vaguely, encompassing the comfortable clutter that filled the Office.

“Anyway,” Randy continued, “now Madame Malinova is staying around here for a while. I don’t know if she hurt something or just needs a rest, or what, but Miss Bishop said she doesn’t go out at all and has just been staying in the house and getting deliveries from the grocer’s boy.” She sighed heavily. “If only Father were here, he could go visit her. And he could just casually mention that he has a daughter who dances. And maybe she’d say, ‘Bring her over. I’d love to see her.’”

“That’s six. And maybe she wouldn’t,” Rush said—less than helpfully, Randy thought. “Maybe she’d just say to Father that it was nice meeting him, and close the door. And then where would you be?”

“Right where I am now,” Randy said. “Wanting and wanting and wanting to meet Madame Malinova.”

“You never said—why is it _Madame_ Malinova, anyway?” asked Rush. “She’s not French, and that’s certainly not what they call Russian ladies, is it?”

“I’m not sure,” answered Randy. “Maybe because everything else about ballet is French.” She sighed again. “If only she lost a bracelet!”

“What?” chorused the others.

“Like in _Jo’s Boys_. Josie wants to be an actress, and there’s a famous actress staying near them, but she wants to be left alone.”

“Like Garbo,” said Mona, sotto voce.

“So Josie spies on her, and one day the actress loses a bracelet in the water, and Josie finds it, and gets to audition for the actress, and she tells her she has talent! So if Madame Malinova lost a bracelet, I could find it for her, and then she would let me audition for her.”

“Does she have a bracelet?” asked Oliver practically. “Maybe you could sneak in and borrow it, and then return it to her.”

Randy considered that, but only briefly. “That wouldn’t work. I wouldn’t know how to get in. And besides, I don’t even know if she _has_ a bracelet. That was just an example.”

“Well, she probably has _something_. But I suppose it would be stealing,” Oliver said. “Even if you took it just so you could return it.”

“It would be like taking it hostage,” said Rush. “Kidnapping, holding for ransom, theft. They put people away for that, you know.”

“Okay, okay,” said Randy. “I’m not going to do that. So help me come up with a better idea. How can I meet Madame Malinova if Father isn’t here to introduce me? And Miss Bishop won’t—I asked her. I think she’s sorry she even mentioned Madame Malinova to me, and she won’t talk about her anymore.”

Rush and Mona and Mark looked at each other. They really did want to help Randy, if they could. Even if it was an enjoyable pastime to tease her. Randy had been dancing since shortly after she could walk. She hadn’t had many lessons, only for a brief time when they were still living in New York. Once they’d moved to the Four-Story Mistake, those had ended, as had many other extras. But she insisted on going to any movie that had dancing in it, especially ballet. She had gone to see _Waterloo Bridge_ five times when it was showing in the Carthage theater, and come home crying bitterly every time. She would have gone even more times, but she’d spent all her own allowance, and no one would lend her any more money for it.

“You need an introduction,” said Mona thoughtfully. “In _Pride and Prejudice_ , people can’t even talk to each other until they’ve been introduced.”

“I _know_ ,” said Randy, annoyance in her voice. “Most people, we just go up to their house and ring the doorbell. Or knock. Or yell. Or something. But I can’t do that with Madame Malinova. Even if I did, she probably wouldn’t answer the door. Or she would say ‘Go away, little girl.’ I _hate_ when people call me a little girl.”

The others nodded sympathetically. They were used to coping with adults who didn’t realize how mature they all had become, but it was still frustrating.

“Does she have a dog or a cat?” wondered Oliver. “Maybe we could borrow it, and then bring it back, and she’d be happy.”

“That’s just like the bracelet,” Randy said dismissively, “except that it’s a pet. We’re not going to steal anything.”

“What about the grocery boy?” suggested Mona. “You said he’s the only one who gets to go in. Is there any chance that you could talk him into letting you go in with him?”

Randy jumped up and danced around. “That’s it, Mona! You’re brilliant!” Mona preened, and tried to look modest. “I won’t talk to the grocery boy, I’ll talk to Mrs. Stanley.” Mrs. Stanley was the grocer. “If I ask her, I bet she’ll let me take the daily delivery. And then I’ll be able to, um...”

“Infiltrate?” Rush suggested. 

“Well, get the lay of the land, anyway. It’s not as if I’m spying, or stealing anything. I just want to get to meet her.”

“Well, you’ll have to do it tomorrow,” Mona said. “It’s almost time for dinner.”

Randy looked at the clock, startled. How did it get to be so late? “It’s time to set the table.” She ran off to take care of that.

Dinner was fresh greens from the garden, fish caught by Oliver, fresh peas (again from the garden), and Cuffy’s wonderful homemade bread, with jam and butter. After dinner and cleanup, there was a lively game of indoor hide-and-seek that lasted until Cuffy sent them to take their baths and then go to bed.

The next day, Randy bicycled the three miles to Carthage, and went to Stanley’s Grocery to beard the lion, or the grocer, in her den. She always liked visiting the grocery store. It was full of good-smelling things, and colorful cans, and mysterious packets. It was also full of delicious candy and other goods that Cuffy would never buy for them—“If you want to spend your allowance on that sweet junk, that’s your lookout,” Cuffy always said. “But I’m not going to waste your father’s money on such things.” It was bright and chilly up front, where the refrigerated items were kept, but quiet and dim in the back.

Randy waited until the place was empty except for Mrs. Stanley and herself, then gathered her courage. “Hello, Mrs. Stanley.”

“Well, hello, Miranda. I didn’t notice you lurking back there. Is there something you’re looking for? Willy already picked up your order. Was there something left out? Or did Cuffy forget to order something?”

“No, everything’s fine. But I have a favor to ask you.”

“What’s that? If I can, I will.”

“Madame Malinova orders her groceries from you for delivery, doesn’t she? She’s staying next to Miss Bishop.”

“Yes, she does. When I first heard tell of her, I wondered if she was going to want borsht and other such foreign things that there’s no call for around here, but she asks for lettuce and milk and eggs and bread, just like normal people. She hasn’t come in here since that first time, though. She either telephones in the order or sends it with Stevie.”

“So Stevie takes the deliveries to her?” Randy knew perfectly well that Stevie did, but she wanted to keep the conversation going in the right direction.

“He does. Every day, pretty much. She likes her stuff fresh, she said right off.”

“So that’s the favor I wanted to ask.” Randy gritted her teeth and got to the point. Either this was going to work or it wasn’t. “Could I take over delivering for Stevie? Just to Madame Malinova? I promise to be on time if you tell me what time to show up. And you wouldn’t have to pay me anything, of course.”

“We-e-ll,” said Mrs. Stanley. “That depends. What’s this for? Madame Malinova’s housekeeper told me she wanted privacy, and didn’t want to be disturbed. Stevie just delivers the groceries, with no chit-chat. And what about Stevie’s tips?”

“I just want to meet her. Even if I can’t talk to her. And I would give Stevie any tips she gave me, so he wouldn’t lose anything by letting me do it,” Randy finished in a rush.

“Hmm,” said Mrs. Stanley. “Well, if Stevie is willing, come by around 10 a.m. tomorrow, and we’ll give it a try. You’ll have to bring your own wagon, though, because Stevie will need the grocery’s wagon to do all the other deliveries.”

Randy beamed, and impulsively hugged Mrs. Stanley. “Thank you so much! You’re the best! I’m so glad we buy all of our groceries from you!” She bicycled home in a pleasant fog, eager to tell the others what had happened.

They were quick to bring her down to earth, though. “What if she doesn’t even answer the door?” Rush asked. “Maybe she has a maid who does that. Have you though about that, Miss Pavlova-to-be?”

“I don’t care,” said Randy. “At least now there’s a possibility.”

The next morning, Randy bolted down her breakfast and went into the barn to get the old wagon. It was there, but had clearly been sitting around for a while. It was rusty in places, and squeaked loudly when she pulled it. She brought it to Willy with a crestfallen expression on her face.

“Willy, can you fix this? It’s been too long since we’ve used it, I guess.”

“What’s wrong with it? Oh, just a bitta rust? That oughta be no problem. Lemme take some sandpaper and oil to it, and it’ll be ready to go in no time. It could really use a coat o’ paint, too.”

“Maybe later,” Randy said, almost dancing with impatience. “But I have to be at Stanley’s Grocery by 10 a.m.—I just have to!”

“You shoulda asked me yesterday. Then I coulda fixed it up nice for you.”

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t think of it. But you’ll get it working for me?”

“Sure thing. Here you are.” Willy had been bustling around with his tools, and when he gave the handle back to Randy, it rolled smoothly, without a squeak.

“Thank you!” she said, and ran off with it.

She arrived at the grocery in good time, if well out of breath. The clock over the counter said it was five minutes to ten. She stood there panting for a few moments until Mrs. Stanley noticed her.

“Hello, Miranda. You’re right on time. I talked to Stevie, and he said it was fine for you to take over Madame Malinova’s deliveries, as long as you promise to pass over any tips she might give you. Her order’s all ready.” She handed Randy a lumpy parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “Eggs, a nice bit of steak from the butcher’s, some fresh vegetables, and a few other things.”

It wasn’t all that heavy, so she might have carried it in a bag, but after a half-mile or so she was thankful for the wagon. She had considered taking her bicycle and trusting to the basket, but when she heard there were eggs in the parcel, she was glad she hadn’t. All it would take would be one spill—and she still had those from time to time on her bicycle, despite all the practice she got.

It was a fairly long walk to Madame Malinova’s house, and the weather was warm. She danced with excitement from time to time, but mostly she just plodded along, and eventually she arrived at the right house. She didn’t know who had had lived there before Madame Malinova rented it, or who owned it. She didn’t usually come in this direction, except to visit Miss Bishop. She looked at the house and tried to think that it looked welcoming, but truly it just looked like any other house. The front yard was neatly kept, and the front door was forbiddingly closed. She went around to the back door and knocked.

The door was opened by an elderly woman in a black uniform with a white apron. Just like something out of a book, Randy thought. She’d hoped that Madame Malinova would answer the door herself, but she’d known that wasn’t very likely, especially when Mrs. Stanley had mentioned the housekeeper.

“Hello,” she said. “I’m Miranda Melendy, but I mostly go by Randy. I’ll be delivering your groceries from now on instead of Stevie.”

Randy had worried that there would be questions about that, but the woman just took it at face value. She said, “Good morning, Miranda. Thank you,” as she took the parcel. She had enough of an accent that it was a bit of work to understand her at first, but Randy thought she would get used to it in time. She’d hoped there would be a reciprocal introduction, but was not surprised that there was none.

“Um, could I some water? It’s awfully warm today.” Randy hoped that her face looked sufficiently flushed to justify the request. She was truly thirsty, but she wanted to get inside the house even more.

“Water there is plenty of. Come inside and you shall have a glass to drink.” Randy thought the way she put her words together was quite interesting. It took a bit more attention than most people’s did, but it sounded almost like poetry.

The kitchen looked a lot like their own kitchen, where Cuffy reigned supreme, although rather neater, and without as many jars of pickles and preserves. There was an old embroidered sampler hanging on the wall that said “Bless this House.” Next to it was a picture of a black cat with one white paw, washing that paw. Randy giggled.

The woman handed her a glass of water, and asked, “What is it that is funny?”

“The cat. The picture of the cat, I mean. It looks as if it’s washing the black off its paw.” Randy worried that she was talking too much, but after all, the plan was engage the people of the house in conversation, wasn’t it? Now the trick was to get someone else to talk.

“So it does. I had not noticed.” The woman went back to drying dishes. Randy gulped down half of the water, then sipped the rest more slowly. It was tap water, but she’d let the water run for a while first, so it was pleasantly cool. 

“Do you like cats?” Randy asked. Idiot, she thought. Can’t you think of anything better to talk about?

“I like them well enough. And cats are much better to be around than mice are. Where there is a cat, there are no mice.”

“We have two dogs, Isaac and John Doe. I don’t know if they catch mice, but I haven’t seen any in the house. Cuffy said she saw one once”—and had run out of the kitchen squeaking like a hundred mice—“but we set traps, and didn’t catch anything in them. So maybe the mice were smart and left, and maybe the dogs take care of them.” Randy was sufficiently soft-hearted that she didn’t actually want to think about dead mice, or mice becoming dead, though she suspected that she would squeak as loudly as Cuffy if she saw one loose in the house. Mice in cages were fine, but not running across the floor.

“Cats are better than dogs,” said the woman shortly, and hung the dishtowel she had been drying dishes with on the back of a chair. “And cats one can travel with better.”

Randy wasn’t about to argue with that. She loved the family dogs, but traveling with them could be more of an adventure than she wanted, at times. “So do you and Madame Malinova travel with a cat?”

“Not now. And it is work that I have, and deliveries that you have, so it is time for you to be on your way.” Randy didn’t want to tell her that this was her only delivery, but she knew when she was being dismissed. She thanked her for the water, and made her way home with the wagon.

Over lunch, the rest of the family wanted to know how Operation Ballerina, as Rush had dubbed it, was progressing. She told them that she hadn’t yet had a chance to meet Madame Malinova, but she’d met her housekeeper, and seen the kitchen—“Kitchen, what progress!” Rush said—and talked about cats with her.

“And I think she traveled with cats—or a cat, at least—at one time, though the housekeeper—I have to learn her name—said they didn’t have one now.”

Mona looked thoughtful. “You know, my friend Tessie has a cat that had a litter of kittens not too long ago. I think the kittens are ready to leave their mother, because Tessie’s been asking all of us whether we’d like a kitten. Her mother won’t let her keep the kittens, so she needs to find homes for them—or else. Maybe you should take one of them to Madame M’s.”

Cuffy said firmly, “There will be no bringing of kittens to folks who haven’t asked for them. Do you hear me, Randy? I haven’t said anything about this delivery nonsense because I didn’t see the harm in it, but I won’t have you bothering people with pets they don’t want and don’t need and haven’t asked for.”

She sounded so stern that Randy wondered if Cuffy was thinking about Crusty the alligator, who had definitely been an unasked-for, and from Cuffy’s point of view, certainly unwanted pet. “I won’t,” she promised. “No pets unless specifically requested.” But I’ll be back tomorrow, she thought, and there’s no harm in _talking_ about cats.

The next morning, Randy rushed through breakfast—as much as Cuffy would let any of them rush through a meal—and headed out with the wagon. She got to Carthage at what she considered the right time—a few minutes early, but not too much. Mrs. Stanley handed her the parcel, and she trudged off to Madame Malinova’s. All this walking is probably good for me, she thought.

She arrived at her destination, and went around to the back door. She knocked, and the housekeeper motioned for her to come in. “Sit yourself down and cool off a bit.” She poured Randy a glass of water and pointed at a chair. The kitchen was warm, but not as warm as it had been outside, and Randy was grateful to be out of the sun. Maybe Cuffy has a point when she keeps telling us to wear our hats, she thought.

“Thank you,” she said to the housekeeper. “By the way, what should I call you? Mrs. Stanley said Madame Malinova rented the house, but she didn’t tell me your name.”

“I am Marta Szilgitz”—at least that’s what it sounded like to Randy, who tried it out.

“Mrs. Szil...?” She stopped, her tongue tangled over the unfamiliar name. 

“Szilgitz,” the woman repeated. “But you may call me Marta, I suppose. Many people in this country have difficulty with the name.”

“I guess you might have trouble with my name,” Randy said thoughtfully. “It’s all a matter of which way you look at it.”

“I suppose so. And I would be Miss, not Missus, having never been married.”

“Marta is much easier. I’m very pleased to have met you, Marta,” said Randy. “So you’re not a Madame, or Mademoiselle, either?” She was pleased with herself for having remembered the French term for an unmarried female.

“Oh, no! That is for Madame, but not for me.” Marta looked mildly appalled.

“Because she’s a ballet dancer?”

“Just so.”

That answered that question nicely. Randy tried to think of a way to bring the subject around to kittens, and decided to tackle it head-on. “I was wondering, you said yesterday that you and Madame Malinova both liked cats, but that you didn’t have any right now. My sister has a friend with a litter of kittens that are about the right age to leave their mother, and they need homes. Would you like one of them?” She held her breath, waiting for the answer.

There was a long pause. Then Marta said, “It is a kind offer, but I would have to see what Madame thinks. We will be here for another few weeks, but then it is back to traveling. It is always pleasant to have a theater cat, but a theater kitten? I do not know.” There was a pause, the she added, “Do you know what color the kittens are? Madame is fond of gray cats.”

“I don’t know,” Randy said, “but I’ll find out. I’ll be back tomorrow, and I’ll tell you then.” She would have run home, but it was too long and too hot, even for as excited and hopeful as she was. There had to be a gray kitten in the litter, there just had to be.

“Mona!” she called, as soon as she got within hailing distance. There was no answer. “Mona! Please come out!”

Mona emerged languidly from the house. “Is something on fire? I was studying my lines. The radio show will be starting up again soon, and I need to be ready.”

“Does Tessie still have kittens?”

“As far as I know, Tessie has not had any kittens, but her _cat_ had kittens. And there are still kittens looking for a home, I think.”

Randy stuck out her tongue. “Smart-aleck. Do you know what color they are? Are any of them gray?”

Mona shrugged. “How should I know? I haven’t seen them. It’s not as if a house with two dogs, not to mention assorted horses and chickens, needs any more livestock.”

“Well, Marta said they might want a kitten, and that Madame Malinova likes gray cats. So I wanted to see if there was a gray kitten for her.”

Off they went to Tessie’s house. She wasn’t home, but her mother was happy to show them the kittens, given the possibility of at least one of them going away. “But be careful with Eleanor the mama cat,” she warned. “They’re mostly weaned, but she’s still pretty protective.

The kittens—there were five of them—were adorable. There were two calico, one black-and-white spotty one, an orange one, and (hooray!) one grey-striped tabby. Randy immediately fell in love with the black-and-white one. “It’s a cow kitten!” she cooed. “Do you think—”

“I think it would make a lovely snack for Isaac. And John Doe would deal with the leftovers,” said Mona.

“Oh, no! No dog is going to eat this kitty,” she said, hugging it to her chest. “But I think this gray one will be perfect for Madame Malinova, as long as she doesn’t insist on a solid gray. I mean, all the hairs are gray, it’s just that some are lighter than others.”

After a brief conference with Tessie’s mother, she promised not to give away either the gray kitten or the black-and-white one in the next couple of days, while Randy negotiated with Marta and Cuffy, respectively. “Not that anyone is likely to be so eager that you have to worry,” she said resignedly. 

Cuffy, when approached about the possibility of a kitten in the house, also proved more resigned than eager, but she didn’t say no. “Cats can mostly take care of themselves, after all,” she pointed out. “And they are cleanly creatures.”

“And I’ll feed it and do everything that’s needed to take care of it,” Randy assured her.

“Just keep it out of my bedroom, that’s all I ask.”

“I will,” promised Randy, with more hope than confidence.

The next morning, Randy walked and trotted the three miles to Carthage with the wagon rattling behind her, just to get there as quickly as possible. She had to wait impatiently for a few minutes while Mrs. Stanley made up the parcel. Randy thanked her, loaded it in the wagon, and headed to Madame Malinova’s. When she knocked on the door, she could scarcely wait until Marta answered the door before excitedly saying, “Yes, there is!”

“Calm down, child! It is much too warm for all this. There is what?” said Marta.

“A gray kitten! You said that Madame likes gray cats, and there are five kittens in the litter, and one is gray. And one is black-and-white, and I think I’m going to be taking that one. I’ve never had a kitten, or a cat, before. So, do you think I could bring the gray kitten tomorrow?”

As Marta drew breath to answer, the door to the kitchen opened, and Madame Malinova entered. She looked just as Randy thought a ballerina ought to look: elegant, not too tall, with shiny black hair pulled into a bun at the back of her neck. She was wearing a black skirt and a stretch gray top, and Randy thought she looked very exotic. “So who is it that I’ve heard Marta talking to every morning for the last few days?” She had a trace of accent, but much less than Marta did.

Marta introduced her. “This is Miranda—Randy—the little girl who’s been delivering the groceries this week.”

“And you are Madame Malinova, right? I’m very pleased to meet you; I’ve heard so much about you.” She knew she was gushing, but couldn’t help it.

“I’m pleased to meet you, too, Miranda. What happened to the boy who was making the deliveries before—Stevie, was it?”

Randy blushed. Time to confess, she thought. “Um, well. I love ballet, and I want to be a dancer, and when I heard that there was a famous dancer staying in the neighborhood, well...”

“You thought that you would use this opportunity to meet me,” Madame Malinova finished for her.

“It was much more sensible than some of the other schemes that my brothers and sister came up with,” she admitted.

“Oh? That I would like to hear about sometime,” Madame Malinova said with a smile.

She’s not angry! thought Randy. “I don’t want to be a bother, but I so much wanted a chance—”

“I understand. You are not the first, or even the fifth, that I’ve encountered trying something of this sort. You are lucky that I have a kindness for aspiring young dancers. So tell me, what sort of training have you had?”

“I’ve always danced, but I haven’t had much formal training,” Randy had to say. “I took ballet lessons for a while when we lived in New York, but haven’t been able to since we moved to the country. I did a dance in the school play, and in the production we had for a children’s carnival, but that’s about it.”

Madame Malinova looked stern. “My dear, ballet is something one must devote one’s life to, if one is to succeed. How old are you?”

“Eleven years old,” Randy said.

“Not too old, but almost. When I started at the Imperial Ballet School, I was seven years old, though they don’t accept children until somewhat later these days. And competition is fierce—the year I first auditioned, over 3,000 children tried out for 30 places. Do you think you would be worthy of one of those places?”

Randy quailed, but answered honestly. “I don’t know. What does one need to be worthy?”

“To be a ballet dancer, one has to practice every day, and teach one’s body to obey one—no matter how tired, or sore, or bored you are. All the audience sees is the beauty and lightness, not all the work and pain behind it. And then there is the body. My best friend at the Imperial Ballet, who was talented, maybe even as talented as me, grew too tall to be a ballerina, and sadly had to find another occupation. A boy I knew had a bad fall. He hadn’t done anything wrong, or foolish, but he tore something, and never could dance after that. The body is the instrument the mind plays upon in order to dance the ballet.”

Randy felt her jaw dropping. She hadn’t really thought about ballet as a way of life, but instead something in the comfortably distant future. But if Madame Malinova was right, and how could she be otherwise, then it was almost too late for her to start thinking about her career.

“So,” said Madame Malinova. “There is the hard truth. Let us see another truth. Dance for me.”

“Now? Where?” squeaked Randy. 

Madame Malinova opened the kitchen door and pointed to another room. It had probably been the living room originally, but it had been remade into a small dance studio. All the original furniture had been removed, and there was a bench in one side of the room, and a large phonograph next to it. Along one of the walls was a barre.

“This is my studio. It is small, but it gives me a place to practice every day.”

“Even now,” asked Randy ingenuously, “when you’re so famous?”

Madame Malinova smiled. “Even now. Especially now. My teacher always said that if she missed practice for one day, she knew it, and if she missed for two days, her teacher knew it, and if she missed for three days, even the audience knew it. And I’ve found she was correct. The only time I miss practice is if I am ill.”

She walked over to the phonograph and chose one of the records, but didn’t start playing it. “First, show me how you warm up.”

With a great deal of nervousness, Randy took off her sandals and went through the warmup routine of stretches and exercises she had learned during her ballet classes. Truth be told, it had been quite a while since she had done them, but the exercises came back to her. She tried to do them properly, and was surprised to realize that she was rather less limber than she used to be. I guess practicing does make a difference, she thought. Even to someone like me who doesn’t have much training.

“Much too tight,” said Madame Malinova. “A dancer must be flexible but strong—like a willow. But if you are finished, show me a dance. Can you improvise?”

“I can try,” Randy said, with more confidence in her voice than she actually felt. But making up dances to the music had always been one of her favorite things, so this was the best chance she was going to get.

“This is from _The Nutcracker_. You are familiar?”

Randy nodded. Madame Malinova dropped the needle onto the record, and the music began. It was the Waltz of the Flowers, she recognized. She listened to the music briefly, then let the music take her where it wanted to go. She tried not to think about specific steps, but just dance out the feel of the music. She wasn’t sure any of the steps she was doing were proper ballet moves, anyway. When the music ended, a few minutes later, she was panting. This was more work than she had done in a long time!

She looked at Madame Malinova fearfully. Had she totally made a fool of herself? Would Madame tell her to leave, because she was a clumsy dolt? But Madame didn’t look angry or scornful, just thoughtful. “Yes, there is some talent there, but no training. No training at all.”

“But—” Randy started to say something about the ballet lessons she’d had in New York, but a look from Madame Malinova made her stop.

“Were we in Leningrad, you might consider applying for the Imperial Ballet School. As I said, many more children apply than can possibly be accepted. I believe there are comparable schools here in America. Of course, if you just want to dance for your own enjoyment, that is something else entirely.” She paused, then looked straight at Randy. “What is it you want with your life? For your whole life?”

“Um.” Randy had to think before she answered. “Honestly? I don’t know. I always thought about that as something in the future. I do art, and I dance, and eventually the future will happen.”

Madame Malinova nodded. “For many vocations, that is acceptable. But for ballet, one must start very young. I do not know as much about what they call the modern dance, but even that requires a great deal of study and work.”

“And I’d probably have to go away to school somewhere. There’s nowhere around here to train.”

“This is something for you to think about. Perhaps you should talk to your parents?”

“It’s just my father—and Cuffy, of course. She lives with us, and our father is in Washington for the government most of the time. But yes, I should talk to Father.”

“In the meantime, I will be here for another three weeks. You have been coming every morning. Do you have other deliveries to make after me, or am I your only one?”

“Just you,” Randy admitted.

“So. After your delivery, we can practice. Do you have proper ballet slippers?”

“Yes,” she said. And, excitedly, “And I also have toe shoes! Father bought them as a present for me.”

Madame Malinova looked appalled. “No! No toe shoes. You are too young, and you have not the training. You would only damage yourself. Have you tried dancing with them?”

Randy hung her head. “A little, but they hurt my feet, and they clunked when I walked with them. I thought they would be so much more graceful than they actually were. But I love them.”

“That is always how it is. You are too young for them, and they take much practice to wear. But bring your ballet slippers, and I will see you tomorrow. Your clothing—” she gestured at Randy’s sunsuit “—is appropriate, so wear that as well.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow!” She couldn’t wait. Oh, and she’d almost forgotten. “Um, Marta said that you liked cats, and used to have one, but don’t anymore. And a friend of my sister’s has a gray kitten, and I was wondering if you would like it,” she finished in a rush.

Madame Malinova’s face softened. “A kitten,” she said. “It is a long time since I have had a kitten. A gray kitten, even. Yes, I think you may bring a kitten. Not tomorrow, since I will need food and other supplies, but perhaps the day after. And now I have things to do, so it is time for you to take your leave.”

“Thank you, thank you!” said Randy breathlessly. She slipped out of the studio and made her adieus to Marta, and started home. Practice, maybe even lessons, with Madame Malinova! But Madame Malinova had given her a lot to consider. Did she actually want to devote her life to ballet, or dance of any sort? It was a huge decision, and one she needed to think about and decide on fairly quickly. From the way Madame talked, Randy thought it might be almost too late, so putting off the decision would be the same as making a decision. But right now, the sun was shining, she was going to have a cow-kitten, and she had _such_ news to tell her family.

She danced and skipped all the way home.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very grateful to Patricia Wrede for beta reading and plotting assistance on short notice, as well as an ongoing willingness to listen to my bitching and moaning and make helpful suggestions.


End file.
